


Benedict Who?

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Olympic Games, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Greg see a man on TV opening the Olympic Games who looks and sounds exactly like Sherlock. Enter Mycroft, who has asked the actor, Benedict Cumberbatch, to tea. But is he really who he says he is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benedict Who?

Hey, Greg, you busy? - JW

Nope. Just finished a case. What's up, John? - GL

Kinda hoping for some company. Been a hard day. - JW

I understand. 8 month anniversary today, isn't it? - GL

... Yeah. So if you wouldn't mind coming over? - JW

Sure. I'm over at Molly's. Give me 20 minutes? - GL

See you then. - JW

A polite knock on the door about half an hour later had John limping to the door to open it. Greg Lestrade walked in, a small smile on his face. John closed the door and led the way to the armchairs in the center of the room. John took Sherlock's old chair while Greg settled into John's usual chair.

"So," Greg started quietly, staring at John. "How you holding up?"

"Been better," John said sadly. "Been worse. It just kind of hit me all at once today, you know?" Greg nodded, sending John a compassionate glance.

"What do you want to do?" Greg asked curiously. "Trade stories, sit in silence, watch telly?" John huffed out a strained laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

"I don't think I could handle stories or silence," the doctor said. "How about we watch some telly? I think the Olympics are starting today. I can get some tea going."

"Sounds like a plan," Greg said companionably. He turned slightly to turn the TV on and change the channel to the one the Olympics were being held on. He sat back, absently watching a commercial. John rose from Sherlock's armchair and limped into the kitchen to get tea ready. He pulled down two cups, smiling sadly at the second one. He placed teabags in them and waited for the water to boil.

The opening of the Olympics came on and Greg found his attention utterly claimed by the man on the screen. He looked so much like Sherlock it was actually eerie. And then he spoke and Greg's mouth dropped open. He turned the volume up, trying to convince himself he wasn't seeing what he was seeing.

A warm, velvet, oh-so-familiar baritone suddenly filled the flat and John felt his legs go numb beneath him. He stared into the living room from the kitchen, his mouth dry. That couldn't be him. Couldn't be his dead flatmate returned to life. John stood frozen in the kitchen drinking in the sound of that voice.

"John?" Greg's startled voice calls. "You... you need to come see this." John squared his shoulders and gripped the handle of his cane a little tighter. He walked into the living room and turned to the TV. A man met his gaze, tall with pale skin and dark curls. His silvery blue eyes gazed out at John from the screen and John felt his breath stutter to a halt. This was Sherlock, standing on a street in London. The same imperious lift of a hand to summon a taxi, the same dreaming look as he rode down the street, the same warm and velvet voice narrating.

"Sh... Sherlock?" John stammered, sinking down into Sherlock's armchair. The man on the screen raised his arms with his back to the camera and John felt his breath catch again. He looked so much like Sherlock. Then he turned and John drowned in the silvery blue of his eyes. The picture cut to a tall man with messy brown hair in a trench coat and suit running the Olympic torch up to the giant bonfire and setting it alight. After, a commercial filled the silence in the flat as John and Greg looked on in shock.

"Was... was that... him?" Greg finally asked, his voice high with grief and surprise. John shrugged, unable to find his voice. He knew Sherlock was dead. He'd felt his pulse after the man had stepped off the ledge of St. Bart's. Saw the blood that coated his head and the sidewalk. A thought burned through John's mind. Mycroft. He would know whether that was Sherlock.

Mycroft, we need to talk. - JW

About what, John? Last time I came by, you threatened to shoot me. - MH

Have you seen the opening of the Olympics? - JW

I have. Why do you ask? - MH

Damn it, don't play innocent. Was that him? - JW

No. You and I both know he's gone. Though I am having a lovely chat with the actor if you'd like to meet him. - MH

Actor? The man who opened the Olympics is an actor? - JW

Yes, John. Why don't you come meet him? - MH

All right. - JW

Excellent. Anthea should be waiting with the car. - MH

John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face as he looked at that text message. Trust Mycroft to anticipate everything. John looked up to see Greg staring at him curiously, his gaze flicking down to the phone in John's hand.

"Mycroft," John explained. "Says the man was an actor and is currently talking with him. I'm going to go meet him."

"An actor?" Greg repeated incredulously. "That looks so incredibly like Sherlock? Well, I guess they say everyone has a twin. I mean, I saw a preview for The Hobbit at a movie I took my daughter to and the actor playing Bilbo looked so much like you John. Some guy named Martin Freeman."

"I'm no actor," John said, chuckling humorlessly. "And I'm going to find out what's going on here. Even if I have to threaten to shoot Mycroft again." Greg laughed at him, one hand resting on his gun as if he was seriously considering giving it to John to help with the threat.

"Let me know what you find out?" Greg asked, standing from the armchair. John nodded and they both walked out of the flat. Outside, a sleek black car with a woman leaning against it sat at the curb. Greg clapped John on the shoulder before turning to find a cab.

"Dr. Watson," the woman said politely. "Whenever you are ready."

"Now is fine, thank you," John replied icily. "How long have you been waiting down here, Anthea?"

"About 10 minutes," Anthea replied absently. She followed John into the car, still typing away at her phone. The drive to the Diogenes Club was silent as John sat fuming. Seeing what looked like Sherlock on the screen dragged up a lot of repressed emotions and John wasn't ready to deal with them all yet.

The car stopped outside and John got out, handing a white business card with Mycroft's name on it to the doorman. He was walked through the silent club to Mycroft's office. He limped in and glared at the elder Holmes brother before his attention was arrested by the man sitting in one of the armchairs across from Mycroft.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, unconsciously taking a step forward. Mycroft rose from his chair, a look of sadness on his face. The other man rose as well, his silver blue eyes full of sympathy.

"John, this is Benedict Cumberbatch," Mycroft explained, stepping from behind his desk and putting a hand on John's arm. "He's an actor and when I found out exactly who was opening the Olympics, I decided to have him brought here in case you watched it."

"Hello," Benedict said, his voice so like Sherlock's that John actually shivered. "It's nice to meet you Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes has told me a bit about you." He held out a hand to John and the doctor shook it warily. His hand even felt like Sherlock's from the time they were handcuffed together.

"You... you too," John stammered, his eyes never leaving Benedict's. "Um, how long have you been an actor?"

"For several years now," Benedict replied, smiling. "Why do you ask?"

"You look so much like my best friend," John breathed. "It's... just uncanny." Feeling his legs trembling underneath him, John leaned harder on his cane. He looked at Mycroft, sadness and pain in his eyes. The elder Holmes returned the look, compassion in his eyes.

"I'll have Anthea take you back, John," Mycroft said quietly. The doctor nodded and allowed himself to be led out of the room. Mycroft sat back down behind his desk and Benedict sat in the chair he had risen from. Neither man said anything until Anthea sent a text saying John was home.

"That went well," Mycroft said, tipping back slightly in his chair. He watched as Sherlock shed the personality of the actor whose persona he'd borrowed.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I'm surprised he believed I wasn't me. But then, John's always been practical."

"He has," Mycroft agreed, looking sharply at his brother. "Was it worth it? Putting him in danger like that?"

"It was," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes on his hands. "I got to see him again. And he's still safe. That will always be worth it."


End file.
